sure where her husband had gone.
He inspected his wife’s rosebushes along the back fence, and asked himself for the hundredth time where Mark Sway would run to. There was no doubt, at least in his mind, that Reggie had helped him escape. She’d obviously gone crazy again, and run off with the kid. He smiled to himself. He’d have the pleasure of busting her ass.
THE HANGAR WAS A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE MAIN
terminal, in a row of identical buildings all drab gray and sitting quietly together. The words Gulf Air were painted in orange letters above the tall double doors, which were opening as the three cars stopped in front of the hangar. The floor was sparkling concrete, painted green without a speck of dirt and covered with nothing but two private jets side by side in a far corner. A few lights were on, and their reflections glowed on the green floor. The building was big enough for a
stock car race, Mark thought as he stretched his neck for a glimpse of the two jets.
With the doors out of the way, the entire front of the hangar was now open. Three men walked hurriedly along the back wall as if searching for something. Two more stood by one door. Outside, another half dozen moved slowly about, keeping their distance from the cars that had just parked.
“Who are these people?” Mark asked in the general direction of the front seat.
“They’re with us,” Trumann said.
“They’re FBI agents,” Reggie clarified.
“Why so many?”
“They’re just being careful,” she said. “How much longer, do you think?” she asked Trumann.
He glanced at his watch. “Probably thirty minutes.”
“Let’s walk around,” she said, opening her door. As if on cue, the other eleven doors in the little parade opened and the cars emptied. Mark looked around at the other hangars, and the terminal, and a plane landing on the runway in front of them. This had become terribly exciting. Not three weeks earlier, he’d beaten the crap out of a subdivision kid at school after the kid taunted him because he’d never flown. If they could only see him now. Rushed to the airport by private car, waiting for his private jet to take him anywhere he wanted to go. No more trailers. No more fights with subdivision kids. No more notes to Mom, because now she would be at home. He’d decided, sitting alone in the motel room, that this was a wonderful idea. He’d come to New Orleans and outsmarted the Mafia in its own backyard, and he could do it again.
He caught a few stares from the agents by the
door. They cut their eyes quickly at him, then looked away. Just checking him out. Maybe he’d sign some autographs later.
He followed Reggie into the vast hangar, and the two private jets caught his attention. They were like small, shiny toys sitting under the Christmas tree waiting to be played with. One was black, the other silver, and Mark stared at them.
A man in an orange shirt with Gulf Air on a patch above the pocket closed the door to a small office inside the hangar and walked in their direction. K. O. Lewis met him, and they talked quietly. The man waved at the office, and said something about coffee.
Larry Trumann knelt beside Mark, still staring at the jets. “Mark, do you remember me?” he asked with a smile.
“Yes sir. I met you at the hospital.”
“That’s right. My name’s Larry Trumann.” He offered his hand, and Mark shook it slowly. Children are not supposed to shake hands with adults. “I’m an FBI agent here in New Orleans.”
Mark nodded and kept staring at the jets.
“Would you like to look at them?” Trumann asked.
“Can I?” he asked, suddenly friendly to Trumann.
“Sure.” Trumann stood and placed a hand on Mark’s shoulder. They walked slowly across the gleaming concrete, the sounds of Trumann’s steps echoing upward. They stopped in front of the black jet. “Now, this is a Learjet,” Trumann began.
Reggie and K. O. Lewis left the small office with tall cups of steaming coffee. The agents who’d escorted them had slipped into the shadows of the hangar. They sipped what must’ve been their tenth cup of this long
morning, and watched as Trumann and the kid inspected the jets.
“He’s a brave kid,” Lewis said.
“He’s remarkable,” Reggie said. “At times he thinks like a terrorist, then he cries like a little child.”
“He is a child.”
“I know. But don’t tell him. It may upset him, and, hell, who knows